


Dream a Little Dream

by sator_square



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:58:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sator_square/pseuds/sator_square
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock started sneaking into Mycroft's bed at night, all he'd wanted was a bit of closeness. He never imagined how far he would end up going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream a Little Dream

Sherlock stood outside Mycroft’s door, listening closely. Based on Mycroft’s utterly predictable schedule, Sherlock knew he was probably already asleep, but he also knew he didn’t want to end up getting caught based on an incorrect assumption.  
  
After several minutes of nothing but silence, Sherlock quietly turned the knob, pushing the door open and stepping inside. He closed the door behind him just as quietly, then padded over to the bed.  
  
Mycroft lay on his back, eyes closed and breathing steady. His face was completely free of all the concern and disapproval that it held when he was awake.  
  
That relaxed, carefree face was part of what kept Sherlock coming back night after night, months after he’d first felt compelled to sneak into Mycroft’s room to be near him.  
  
Sherlock knew very well that Mycroft would be willing to make up with him. The fight they’d had was idiotic, Sherlock could more than see that now. A simple apology would probably be more than enough to win back Mycroft’s affection; if he were honest with himself, he probably didn’t even need to apologize. Mycroft attempted to talk to him every day without even mentioning it.  
  
Sherlock always ignored him, unless he felt like actively winding him up. At this point, Sherlock could only stand to look his brother in the eye when he was angry, or at least annoyed. Even the anger eventually tended to morph into a sadness that made Sherlock want to lock himself in his room and never come out again.  
  
He’d missed Mycroft more and more as the months passed, eventually finding himself knocking on Mycroft’s door at midnight in the hope of apologizing. Or of getting into an argument about waking him up in the middle of the night. Either would have been enough to fight the loneliness he’d been feeling.  
  
Neither had occurred.  
  
Mycroft hadn’t stirred at all, no matter how hard he’d knocked. Sherlock had quickly given up, opening the door and walking inside to find Mycroft still fast asleep, apparently undisturbed by the noise. Sherlock had sat down on the bed, shaking Mycroft’s shoulder in an attempt to wake him.  
  
It hadn’t worked. Mycroft had continued to breathe peacefully, utterly unaffected by what Sherlock was doing.  
  
Sherlock had lain down beside him, unwilling to leave just because Mycroft wouldn’t wake up. He’d fallen asleep next to him, waking curled up on top of him just before dawn, Mycroft’s hand resting in his hair.  
  
He’d slipped away before Mycroft could wake up.  
  
Sherlock had returned again that night, this time with the specific intention of sleeping near him. He woke on top of Mycroft again the next morning. The next night he simply climbed right under the blanket with Mycroft, falling asleep cuddled next to him.  
  
It would have been relatively innocuous, if strange, had things ended there.  
  
Naturally, they hadn’t.  
  
Shortly after he started sleeping in Mycroft’s bed, Sherlock found himself... _snuggling_ Mycroft before he fell asleep. He would have loved to call it something else, but it was the only word that accurately described what he was doing. He hugged Mycroft, rubbed his arms and chest through his pajamas, nuzzled his face and neck, and generally enjoyed being pressed against him. It had been nearly a decade since he’d decided he was too old to snuggle Mycroft, and he’d completely forgotten how good it felt to be that close to him.  
  
His urge to touch Mycroft grew stronger every day. Soon, Sherlock was running his hands up and down Mycroft’s legs, touching his feet, caressing his hands... It all felt amazing, but touching Mycroft’s bare skin especially so.  
  
It was at this point that things became difficult.  
  
Sherlock knew he shouldn’t touch Mycroft’s body under his clothes. Strictly speaking, he knew he shouldn’t be touching Mycroft’s body in the first place. But the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to do it. And surely, reaching under the top of Mycroft’s pajamas to touch his stomach wasn’t that much worse than touching him through the fabric.  
  
Or so he told himself when he finally gave into the temptation, feeling the soft planes of Mycroft’s stomach, the flab he so often teased Mycroft about. It shouldn’t have been attractive to him. It _wouldn’t_ have been attractive to him, if it were anyone but Mycroft.  
  
But Mycroft it was, and as Sherlock ran his hands over the soft flesh, he felt his body getting more interested in what he was doing than he would have liked. He yanked his hands away immediately, resigning himself to purely above-clothing physical contact from then on.  
  
Or rather, that’s what he tried to do. Sherlock never had been very good at resisting his impulses. Within a few days, he was once again touching Mycroft’s stomach and chest under his clothes, this time also rubbing himself off against Mycroft’s thigh fully clothed. He just barely managed to resist the urge to fondle Mycroft’s midnight erection through his pajamas.  
  
Of course, it was really only a matter of time before he gave in, and before long he was gently caressing Mycroft’s cock through his pajama bottoms as he rubbed himself off. Mycroft made a few soft sounds as he was touched, panicking Sherlock a little at first. When it became clear that Mycroft wasn’t going to wake up, however, Sherlock began to enjoy causing the soft gasps and moans.  
  
It made him more comfortable with what he was doing than he really should have been. It wasn’t long before his hand crept beneath the waistband of Mycroft’s pajama bottoms, gently fondling his cock.  
  
Mycroft’s moans grew louder and louder, until he suddenly sat up, panting in confusion. “What? Sherlock? What are you--?”  
  
Sherlock froze in place, unable to move.  
  
Mycroft blinked several times, taking in his surroundings. His expression went from bewildered to penetrating and back again, ending with him staring at Sherlock in horrified confusion. “Sherlock?”  
  
Hearing his name snapped Sherlock out of his daze. He tried to pull his hand away, but Mycroft caught it and held it where it was, a terrible reminder of exactly what he'd been doing when Mycroft woke up.  
  
Realizing that Mycroft wasn’t going to allow him to pull his hand away, Sherlock changed tactics. He grabbed Mycroft's cock, massaging it roughly.  
  
Mycroft sucked in a breath, eyes widening. “Stop that this instant!”  
  
The blatant anger in his voice made Sherlock feel a little better. Antagonizing Mycroft was comfortable, familiar. “Let go of my hand.”  
  
“I'll let go of your hand when you explain what the hell you thought you were doing.”  
  
Sherlock fell back on the simplest method for getting himself out of trouble: deny everything. “I wasn't doing anything.”  
  
Mycroft stared at him. “Not doing-- You were groping me. You _are_ groping me.”  
  
“I am not.” Sherlock slowed the movement of his hand, but didn’t stop.  
  
Mycroft pressed his free hand to his forehead, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “Why are you even in bed with me?”  
  
“I'm not in bed with you.”  
  
“Really?” Mycroft asked blandly.  
  
Sherlock swallowed. “You're dreaming. This is all a dream.”  
  
Mycroft laughed. “And why would I be dreaming about you crawling into my bed and groping me while I sleep?”  
  
Sherlock looked away. He hated the sight of Mycroft laughing at him. “Because you miss me,” he said eventually.  
  
“Is that it?” Mycroft asked. “I can't say I see the connection between _missing_ and _groping_.”  
  
“It didn't start with groping,” Sherlock replied, still not looking at him. “It took a while for... _you_ to build up to it.”  
  
Mycroft sighed. “How did it start, then?” he asked. “What did you do in my first _dream_?”  
  
“I just slept here. With you.” Sherlock squeezed Mycroft’s cock gently.  
  
Mycroft exhaled sharply. “And at what point were you suddenly overcome with lust for my body?” he asked.  
  
Sherlock scowled. “I don't want you or your body. You're fat. And ugly.”  
  
Mycroft laughed. And laughed. And laughed.  
  
“What?” Sherlock’s eyes darted up for a moment.  
  
Mycroft’s face was alight with merriment. “Well, those are hardly the usual reasons for not having sexual desire for a sibling, are they? Most would consider the fact that I'm your brother to be more than off-putting enough.” He caught Sherlock’s eyes with his own.  
  
Sherlock glared back at him with the most disdainful expression he could muster. “ _You're_ the one having the incestuous sex dream, not me,” he retorted.  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Of course I am.” He smiled cryptically. “Well, I suppose I should take advantage of my good fortune.” He let go of Sherlock’s wrist, transferring his grip to Sherlock’s other arm.  
  
Sherlock immediately pulled his hand free of Mycroft’s pajama bottoms. “What do you mean?”  
  
“If, as you have been so kind to inform me, this is actually a dream, then I may do anything I wish to you. Everything will be forgotten before tomorrow morning, and anything that may or may not have transpired will be completely without consequence. If this is truly a dream, of course. You are certain that it is one, are you not?”  
  
Sherlock knew an ultimatum when he heard one. “What do you intend to do to me?” he asked, feeling his face grow hot. His cock, only half-hard at this point, quickly returned to attention.  
  
“Oh, something I’ve been wanting to do to you for some time, now,” Mycroft replied, running a single finger over Sherlock’s warm cheek.  
  
Sherlock gulped nervously.  
  
Mycroft traced his finger over Sherlock’s face, pulling his hand away when he reached Sherlock’s ear. He looked Sherlock over for a moment, then abruptly grabbed him and threw him over his lap, yanking his pajama bottoms down.  
  
Sherlock yelped when he felt the first slap, far more painful than he could ever have imagined. “H-hey! You can’t--!”  
  
 _Slap!_ “It’s my--” _Slap!_ “--dream, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied. “I’ll do--” _Slap!_ “--as I please.” _Slap!_  
  
Sherlock bit his lip, folding his arms in front of him on the bed and pressing his head to his forearm. He swallowed his cries as the blows rained down on him, not wanting to give Mycroft the satisfaction of hearing him suffer. His arousal should have been waning, but it wasn’t, his cock trapped between his body and Mycroft’s leg and forced to rub against the soft fabric of Mycroft’s pajamas with each and every blow.  
  
When Mycroft finally stopped, Sherlock made a confused sound that could have been either relief or disappointment. He panted into the bedsheet, barely able to stop himself from rutting against Mycroft’s thigh until he came. “Are... you...” Sherlock sucked in a breath. “Is that it?” he challenged.  
  
“Certainly not,” Mycroft replied, flipping him over and inspecting his body.  
  
Sherlock reached for his pajama bottoms, hoping to pull them up and cover himself, but Mycroft stopped him.  
  
“No, I don’t think so,” Mycroft said, tugging the article of clothing the rest of the way off and throwing it to the floor. Sherlock’s shirt soon joined it, while his socks landed somewhere on the other side of the room.  
  
Sherlock squirmed, feeling utterly exposed. His cock pulsed, his mind filled with lewd thoughts of what Mycroft might do to him next.  
  
“You appreciate discipline far more than you would have me believe,” Mycroft said, running a finger along Sherlock’s cock.  
  
“Sh-shut up, Mycroft.” Sherlock jerked his hips upward, desperate to increase the physical contact.  
  
Mycroft tsked at him, pulling his hand away entirely. He gave Sherlock’s sore arse a single slap.  
  
Sherlock groaned softly.  
  
Mycroft ran a hand up Sherlock’s leg, caressing the inside of his thigh -- and then scratching it.  
  
“H-hey!”  
  
Mycroft smirked at him, then leaned his head down, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s stomach. His mouth blew a hot breath of air on Sherlock’s twitching cock, but didn’t actually touch it. He kissed his way up Sherlock’s chest, sucking on a nipple.  
  
“O-oh--!” Sherlock buried a hand in Mycroft’s hair, resisting the urge to push Mycroft’s head down to where he really needed it. “Mycroft-- ow!”  
  
Mycroft worried the nipple with his teeth for just a moment, then licked it apologetically. He pinched the other one, a little too hard, then swirled his tongue around it. “Sorry,” he said, looking up from what he was doing. “Was there something you wanted?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock replied, though he couldn’t help a downward glance.  
  
“Ah, this,” Mycroft said, wrapping his hand around Sherlock’s aching cock. He began gently stroking the head. “Is this what you wanted?”  
  
Sherlock bit his knuckle, muffling the sound that wanted to come out of him. He pushed his cock against Mycroft’s hand.  
  
“You never learn, do you?” Mycroft slapped his arse, then gave his cock a long, firm stroke. He repeated this several times, then leaned down and sucked on the inside of Sherlock’s thighs.  
  
Sherlock moaned helplessly, struggling to remain still. Just when he was about to give in and start rubbing himself off against Mycroft’s head, Mycroft bit down _hard_ on one thigh.  
  
“Ow! That hurts!”  
  
“Did it?” Mycroft asked. He gave the abused area several small kisses.  
  
Mycroft then continued to torment Sherlock, kissing and caressing and scratching, licking and sucking and biting, stroking and spanking until he was completely on edge, never knowing whether Mycroft’s next action would cause him pleasure or pain.  
  
Soon, Sherlock couldn’t take any more of it. “Stop...”  
  
Mycroft pulled away, looking at him with hard eyes. “What's the matter, Sherlock?” he asked. “You don't enjoy having an unexpected sexual surprise combined with unrelenting hostility? Is it _confusing_ for you?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock lied. “But if you're going to do this, do it...” He trailed off, only able to think of words he couldn't have forced out of his mouth if his life depended upon it. Gently. Lovingly. “...correctly.”  
  
Mycroft petted his curls. “Correctly?”  
  
“This sort of thing isn't supposed to be painful.”  
  
Mycroft laughed. “And what is it supposed to be then, brother dear? Inform me, based on your vast amounts of experience.”  
  
Sherlock looked away, face burning in humiliation. “Pleasurable. Obviously. You don't need experience to know that.”  
  
Mycroft gave Sherlock’s cock a single lingering squeeze. “You seem to be getting enough pleasure from this as it is,” he said. “But you do have a point.” He lay back down on the bed. “Perhaps I should allow _you_ to take the lead.”  
  
Sherlock sat up, looking at him nervously. “What do you mean?”  
  
“This dream started with you doing as you pleased with my body,” Mycroft replied. “Obviously, that must be what I truly want.” He gestured down at himself, then smiled at Sherlock almost mockingly. “Go ahead.”  
  
Sherlock dropped his head, unable to bear the scrutiny. He considered simply running from the room and never coming back; there was nothing stopping him at this point.  
  
Nothing other than his own pitiful body and the knowledge that he would never have an opportunity like this again, that is.  
  
Sherlock reached for the top button of Mycroft’s pajamas, hands shaking as he pushed it through the buttonhole. He glanced up and saw Mycroft watching him with an unreadable expression, which did nothing to make him more comfortable. He lowered his eyes, undoing the rest of the buttons as quickly as possible.  
  
Sherlock shoved the fabric aside, revealing Mycroft’s bare skin. He pressed a hand tentatively down on Mycroft’s chest, intensely aware that Mycroft was awake and conscious of everything he was doing. He slowly ran his hand up and down Mycroft’s chest, feeling the coarse hair beneath his fingers. When it became clear that Mycroft wasn’t going to stop him, he added a second hand, reveling in being able to touch Mycroft anywhere he wanted to.  
  
Sherlock threw a leg over Mycroft’s lap, straddling him, then leaned down and wrapped his arms around him, pressing their chests together. Though he did it quickly, he didn’t do it quite quickly enough to avoid seeing Mycroft looking at him with a small smile, simultaneously sad and affectionate.  
  
It sparked a confusing mess of emotions inside of him, a mess he didn’t want to deal with then, or potentially ever. It was worse than having Mycroft look at him with obvious disappointment, in its own way.  
  
Sherlock hid his face in Mycroft’s neck, focusing all his attention on the physical sensations he was experiencing. The feeling of bare skin against bare skin was almost overwhelming. He could feel Mycroft’s chest rising up and down with each breath, far more deeply than when he slept. Sherlock could feel the thrum of Mycroft’s heartbeat, somehow an even stronger indicator of Mycroft’s interest than the erection straining against his pajama bottoms.  
  
Which is not to say that didn’t deserve his attention as well. Sherlock shoved the waistband down just far enough to pull out Mycroft’s cock, pressing it against his. _“Oh,”_ he breathed.  
  
Mycroft’s chest rumbled with laughter. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head, then wrapped his arms around him, hands rubbing slow circles into his back.  
  
Sherlock moaned softly into Mycroft’s neck, then rocked slowly against him, holding both their cocks in one hand as he moved. He counted it as a victory when Mycroft made a small, pleased sound and began thrusting back against him. It started out slow, deliberate, but soon they were both flushed and panting, frantically grinding against each other in search of release.  
  
Sherlock found it first, his whole body trembling violently as he came. He felt the almost overwhelming urge to kiss Mycroft, countered only by the equally overwhelming fear of how Mycroft would react if he actually did it. Sherlock kissed Mycroft’s neck instead, rapidly fisting his cock until he felt him shudder beneath him.  
  
They both lay there, unmoving, their breathing the only sound in the room.  
  
After a few moments, Sherlock wiped his hand on Mycroft’s stomach, then cautiously wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders, resting his head against Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, then let both his arms fall down onto the bed. His muscles relaxed, and within a minute or so, Sherlock felt his breathing return to the slow, steady pattern it always had when Mycroft slept.  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes, eventually dozing off himself.  
  
Sherlock awoke before Mycroft the next morning, as always. He had a brief moment of panic about what to do, but decided almost immediately to simply pretend that he’d never been there. He peeled himself away from Mycroft and threw on his pajamas. He then pulled up Mycroft’s pajama bottoms and rebuttoned his top.  
  
Sherlock made his way from the room as quietly as he always had, closing the door behind him. He retreated to his own room, getting dressed and starting work on one of his experiments.  
  
He heard a knock on his door about an hour later. He hesitated for a moment before shouting back in response. “What?”  
  
He didn’t look up as Mycroft pushed his way into the room, or when Mycroft came and put a hand on his shoulder. It was only when Mycroft pressed a pair of dirty socks into his hand that he focused his shocked eyes on Mycroft’s interested face.  
  
“I thought you might like these back,” Mycroft said mildly.  
  
Sherlock dropped his eyes, shaking slightly. He swallowed several times, then straightened his back stiffly, fixing Mycroft with a glare. “I told you not to touch my stuff.”  
  
“Would you prefer I had left them on the floor of my room?”  
  
“You shouldn’t have taken them to your room in the first place,” Sherlock said irritably, folding the socks in half and setting them atop a stack of other dirty ones.  
  
Mycroft sighed. “Of course. How silly of me.” He squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder gently, then turned back toward the door.  
  
Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the pile of socks until he heard the door close behind him, then threw himself back into his experiment.  
  
He tried to pretend that he wouldn’t go back to Mycroft’s room that night, but he already knew it wasn’t true.


End file.
